On My Father
by rJak
Summary: A background story to describe one of my fantasy roleplay characters Morgan Drakewing, a neutrallyaligned dragoon knight.  Maybe more funnier stories on him soon.


John Stoddert

16 March 2003

On My Father

"Dagger straight! Feet at shoulder length! Keep your back bent! Glare in the eyes, boy! Glare in the eyes!"

I am ten years old, a stripling in your eyes. My gold hair is shaggy, covering my eyes as I stand before you, knife in one hand, sword in the other. You were younger then, no gray in your features, no wrinkles on your face. You wear the red armor of the dragoon, the protector of the empire beset upon all sides.

But that is far from your mind, is it not? The impending battles and the horrors are forgotten, for you seek to train your son. He will not become like you when you were young and fresh. You teach him to fight, to live up to a gode that is all but forgotten to the people around, the humans of a newer age. You remember the heritage of ages long past, the proud history of our family.

Your son stands before you, in a fighting stance, dagger out, sword at eye level, both points at the unseen enemy ahead. You circle about, hands behind back, eyes like a vulture circling the carrion, watching for any sign of weakness to exploit. You see it then. I grip too tight on the dagger, wrist stiff, as eager boys often do. Your hand slaps.

"Careful!" you bark, gauntleted glove cold on my bared hand, bending the wrist around, showing the fluid movements. "You got to be fluid, boy! One moment of stiffness and you'll get some bones broken! And your heels! Less weight on the heels, more on the arch! Prepare to weave as the attack comes into you!"

I seem annoyed, but I listen in rapt attention. Even then, I knew what I wished to be. My eyes look to you, the proud hero, the valiant warrior who would stand when others would flee, against foes rarely seen outside storybooks. Days at a time, you would saddle your chestnut horse and spur him out to the moors, returning with a fresh layer of mud, a few scars, and tales he would tell me as we rested by the fire after our repast. The stories you weaved made me dream of life beyond our humble town, into the wilds of this land.

Then you snap me back into attention. A small cuff on the back of my head, my eyes bulging at the hit. Your face is stern, but your voice is gentle, firm. "Alert, boy! Be alert! One second that you lose concentration is all that an opponent needs to take his swing and put you into the dirt! Now stand straight, crick that back out! You don't want to be hunched over like your old man, do ye?"

"No, sir," I say. Always sir with you. Your son has never forgotten the sir. Always "sir" during training and with company, then the occasional "father" at the dinner table. Manners. Manners were always commonplace. "Shall I try again, sir?"

You nod. For a moment, I think I see a smile on your face. "Relax your shoulders, then. Fingers crossed over the handle, thumb on the buttons of the hilt. Now…dagger out!"

I am ready again. My feet are paced, dagger out, wrist twirling a little as the dagger points, sword at the ready. You circle around, eyes keener, now looking for the cosmetic flaws. My face is forward, but my eyes try to catch your approving stare. I breathe slow. The hot sun beats down upon us as the only sounds are the sound of your boots clunking on the sod, grass rustling as I feel the beads of sweat upon my forehead.

You stop, right in front of me, my sword only inches away from his chest. I see the symbol on your breastplate. The dragon, arms and feet outstretched, teeth bared, the sapphire eyes glinting in the light. It is our family coat of arms, and the symbol of our empire. I remember the stories you have told me, how once man and dragon worked side by side to build our capital city, Saint Albian.

Such a noble animal you made him out to be. The dragon is fierce to those who see it as foe, but benevolent to those who see it as friend. I never forget what you tell me. Even now in this sweltering heat. I cannot imagine how you are feeling, inside that enameled plate that can steam you alive if you are not careful. The silence is broken. You stand in front of me, gauntleted hand on the tip of my sword.

"You have improved," you say.

Such words have never felt so satisfying upon my youthful ears. I have made you happy, father, and such a feeling is contagious. My youthful features betray me as you look down, frowning. You bat the sword down, your cold blue eyes glaring down into my soft green ones.

"Don't let it get to your head, boy. We're still far from over. Put the swords down. We'll go to work on the staves. Go!" Your hand juts out to the wall, where the carved ash poles lay along it. In obedience, I sheath the blades, handing them to you as I turn, legs trotting me over to the second lesson of many on this summer's day.

"Hit!" you now cry. "Hit! Hit! Hit! THRUST! There you go, boy! There you go!"

It is summer again, but the six summers before have changed your son. I have gained muscle through your training and your guidance, and the gleam in my eye matches yours. The hair has been trimmed, groomed. A helmet fits better that way, you say. I do not fancy the trimmed sides, but I do not complain. After all, you have shown me you know best.

"Whoa, lad! Careful, now!" You weave in front of me as you catch the staff swing with your own, locking up. I can now see the silver on the tips of your mane of hair, adding to the black and red of your heavy armor. You are now the one breathing heavily as I press the attack, and you lock me up again.

You stares back, gritting your teeth, smiling all the while.I smile back too. I cannot help it.

"Had enough?" I say in a jovial tone. My feet digging into the ground, pushing at his stave.

"No," you say calmly, almost a whisper. "Not quite yet." I barely have time to notice you shift your weight, slipping your staff under mine, giving me a fair hit in my stomach as I fell forward. The breastplate gives a loud clang, protecting me from any broken ribs but not helping my inevitable descent into the ground face-first.

As I spit the grass from my mouth, I hear your laughter. Not from derision, as I have heard from playmates, but of the irony of the situation, age stealing the victory from beauty. I feel your hand upon mine as you pull me up, dusting the dirt from my own red armor.

"Forgot about your balance," you say. It's the only thing you say as you ruffle my hair. I give a bit of a scowl as he does that, more due to my embarrassment. You walk away, now leaning against a tree. "Intensity is one thing, finesse is another. Learn to make your blows count, but…"

The open-ended statement. I respond as I was taought, almost unconsciously. "…but make doubly sure to keep standing after you make them." I add a childish roll of my eyes at this rote, walking to my father's side, sitting against the trunk. It is now that I feel my fatigue, joints pulsing, hair matted with dirt and sweat. I take off my own glove, starting to suckle a cut on the crease of my thumb.

The sun is setting. The violet haze of the night sky mingled with the crimson of the dying light. We watch it go down, as we always did. The day was for training and fighting, whereas the night was for more fighting and the recuperation, as you said so many times before. Here we talk about life, answer questions, and ready ourselves for returning to the house, where our manservant Kerrey has our food waiting, simple, but sumptuous.

But tonight is different. I have felt it early, when I had risen for our daily exercise. I look up to you as you watch the sun set. The blue eyes have dimmed, almost glassy. Your face would be neutral had it not been for the sad gaze. After a while, you turn to me too, your hand upon my shoulder, fingers tinking at the new suit of armor.

"War," you say, haltingly as your face looks away, into the horizon, "will change you. Perhaps for the worst."

Last night, at dinner, I had told you I had seen the captain, that stocky fellow you didn't care for. He had supplied me with a commission. I would fight for the Saraphan, like you did for so many years. After all, you had retired a year earlier. Would it not be prudent for a son to continue his father's work? I had expected you to be excited, to put your arms around me, say how proud you were.

You did not. In fact, you did not say anything for the rest of the night. It was like a pallor had spread over you. You calmly ate the rest of the meal, then dismissed yourself to bed. I was unsure on how you would take this, true, but the reaction I had planned was one of joy, not of sorrow. I had not said anything about it this day either, mostly out of fear. But you remembered, and you would take this last night together to tell me why.

"War," you continue, "is perhaps the most foolish thing ever devised. Two sides disagree, be it over land or right. The higher powers raise their armies and pitch them against each other. No one gains from it, and needless people die."

I listen, looking to the grass. My hands are in my lap, but my ear is upturned. You sit down next to me, eyes ahead, afraid to look at your son, the son that loves you and respects you.

"Soldiers like us are the lowest forms of society, lower than slaves." A cringe from your brow turns me to you. "At least a slave can choose whether to obey or not. Soldiers either obey or die by the orders of the higher powers that lead them. Even living through a thousand campaigns cannot help you regain the humanity you lose. It is thankless, and it is hopeless."

I start to speak, but your hand on my shoulder stops me, as a knot forms in my throat. "I am proud of you, nonetheless, son. Never doubt that. Never doubt that for a second. Our family is respected, and there are still many friends within the empire's army. Even without me, they will keep you straight."

Your concern has always been appreciated. You are the only family I have, apart from our manservant and the dog. I am an only child, my mother gone from the house when I was still in the cradle. You said she had gone away to her home and will come back, but I knew the look in your eyes. She had left you without saying a word, into the night where we could not follow. I have heard you cry her name in the night, in the longing hope that she would come back. I am your memory of her, and the emerald stare a constant memory of her.

"There are others," you say, tightening your grip. "There are those who will seek to control you, to drive you down. Not only your enemies fight you, but your comrades will as well, seeking to discredit you. You will lose your morals more from the internal politics than you will the horrors of war, and you will see horrors that you cannot begin to comprehend."

"But you fought too," I say in a hushed voice. I feel like the child again, wringing my hands as you look to me, gnawing a little at your lower lip.

"I fought, yes," you say. "We have no choice but to fight. Our enemies are many, inside and without. There are enemies of the empire's and those of our family. They will not discriminate. Son…you must fight them. Not with swords or lances, but with your wits as well. Learn to discriminate your friend and your foe. Never be led astray, and remember your true purpose."

The two of us sit silent. The sun's setting is but a memory now, and the white points of light the stars bring are now our illumination. My path now looked as dark as the night that now enveloped us. I look to you, the only true friend I have known. "But what is my purpose, father? What am I meant to be beyond a soldier? What am I meant beyond what you taught me?"

To that, you are silent. You stand, legs not what they used to be as you support yourself on the tree. "That, my son, you will learn when the time comes. I myself may not live to see that day but I am certain that when you come across it, mysteries beyond your comprehension will be opened to you." Your armor clinks as you shift. "Kerrey will help pack your things. I will see if I can get you supplies for your journey. Albian is quite a trip, is it not?"

I move to get up as well, but you are already moving along the path to the house, stave in hand. "Father!" I cry out. "Father, I can prepare myself."

"I know," you say finally, head turning. You are smiling now, the glint returning. "But allow an old man the opportunity to send his son off properly into a life-changing experience. It will do my soul good."

And you walk down the path, I in close pursuit, the staff aiding my walk.

You knew that things would change for me in the army, father. I would not have been prepared for the brunt of it if it had not been for your stories and advice. I had left our home searching for glory, only to be bogged down in the freezing cold and the acrid mud as the howling ogres, trolls, and goblins of the hinterlands sought my head for a trophy. It was like that for a year or more.

For my valorous service, I was sent back to Albian. Guard duty at the duke's palace followed, where I saw the shady dealings of those I was sworn to protect. The bloated diplomats and bureaucrats that filtered in and out of the palace only turned my stomach, and seeing the abuse heaped upon the servants and the harem girls only worsened my lot.

I made the mistake of falling in love them. I was taken with one of the harem, one almost as old as I. In my brashness, I had planned an escape for her and her companions. It failed, and many died upon the rack. The duke took me in to watch every death, as a reminder of my stupidity. Then, as my lover died, I was struck about the chest with a metal lash, drawing a scar from the shoulder to the hip.

A merciful duke would have let me die then and there, but he instead granted me the post of the dragoon, the position you had held, the position I had dreamed of gaining. I had been recuperating when I came home to deliver the news, but you would not receive me. Kerrey did though. He dressed my wounds as any manservant would do, letting me rest within my old room as he nourished me.

But you did not come. The only thing I saw was your turned back in the study. It was hunched over, shoulders heaving. You were crying for me, for your son who had been grievously wounded in the service of the empire. Or so that is what the duke told you. I dared not tell the truth, not even to Kerrey. I had received the scar from an enraged troll who struck me with his flint axe, and that was it.

I don't think I even said good-bye to you. You would not receive me. You would not talk to me. All I heard was silence, and perhaps in the darkness of the house, a drawn out sob. It was these heavy spirits that went with me when I reported to my next duty.

The dragoons, you had told me, were once a hand-picked group of warriors who served alongside the dragons, guarding their offspring and keeping the roosts defended from invaders. Now, with the dragons long since departed, it was now a glorified name for a special brand of brigands. My superiors secured extra attention upon me, the one who had the audacity of falling in love with a harlot girl. You would have been proud of me, father, for I did not break under their taunts and threats.

But Gods, the things I did in the name of the empire. We would go to outlying border villages and raid, torturing the townspeople who were too afraid or too brave to give in. Elf, human, troll, we didn't care who we attacked. If they were not citizens of the empire, they were at our mercy. Even some villages within Saraphan lands were not safe as we rode in, half-drunk with slaughter and debauchery, looking for some extra money and a few milkmaids to torture.

I would be less than honest if I said I did not give into these temptations, father. I became like them, in fear of rejection, in fear of what they may do to me. Oh, to go back now and undo the wrong I have inflicted upon the men and women who crossed my path. My temper became short, and my lust for battle and pleasure untamed. I was the ravaging animal in the pack, feeding off those too weak to resist, only serving myself and the Empire's whims.

By the time I had gained enough ranks to take in men of my own did I feel your words take hold of me again. The soldiers under me were children, almost the age I was when I left your side to better myself. Each battle became frivolous as I saw more and more of those entrusted unto me die on the battlefield or in the camps of infections. My humanity, I thought I had lost it long ago. But it was only through looking into their eyes did I learn of the sorrow of my life.

By the time I refused to lead my men on a suicide charge on a well-fortified position, the army had enough of me too. The duke I had served before denounced me, and my position was stripped, my dragonlance snapped in two before my eyes. I stood silent as I heard the condemnations of my fellow peers, waiting like jackals to rip my commendations off of me like the meat from the cold ribs of a corpse. Not once did I speak, not even to dispute my allegations. After the council got bored of me, they sent me home.

I come home, a disgrace to the empire and a disgrace to my family name. Your name, father. Galvanized from the horrors of war and sickened with worry, I open the door to the house, stepping in. Kerrey is there, old and faithful Kerrey. He welcomes me back, his little boy, then leads me to your study. I purposely drag behind. I am not that intent upon seeing you for obvious reasons.

You are in the chair, hair more silver than black now, beard gracing over your chin. No armor upon you now, but a simple robe, revealing how frail you have become in the few years I was away. Your eyes, though. Your eyes never lost that glint. Your wizened hand shoos Kerrey away as I stand before you, no armor upon me as well, only the red tunic I had favored and the hide pants that drape over my dragoon boots, the only piece of armor the Empire allowed me to keep.

It is the longest ten minutes in my life, you looking at me, me looking at you. The years have not been kind upon our family. I clear my throat, ready to speak.

"Father…" I say, squeaking.

But you stop me, hand raised, your yellow nails glinting in the dim firelight. Your voice is level, quavering. "I can already see what they have done to you. I already know. News travels even to here."

I look down, eyes closing, holding back tears as I breathe raggedly, ashamed to be in the room with you. "Father, I tried…I failed you. I submit myself to your punishment…"

"Punishment?"

The words seem so foreign to you. You disciplined me, of course. Whenever I stepped out of line, you were there to yank me by the collar. But punishment…hearing that word spoken now raises your eyebrows. You stand, walking over to me. I flinch, half expecting you to strike me across the face, denounce me, throw me out of the home I share with you.

No. You take me into your arms, holding me, embracing me in a tight grip. I never felt that grip from you since my days when I was your child, hugging at your knee. I put my arms around you, head pressing against your neck, tears finally flowing as we stood in the room.

"My son," you say to me, letting my tears soak into your collar, wizened hand stroking my back, reassuring, "you have done something I whished I had the courage to have done. If you had stayed any longer, I would have lost you forever, and they would have won…"

I swallow a sob, pressing against your neck with my cheek, wet as all my frustrations unfold with your words. To think of the things you have told me, there were others he had left unsaid.

"Don't you see, son?" you say, drawing me up to him, his eyes warm as a hand wiped at my nose. "I trained you not to be a soldier, but to be a free spirit. I too was nearly broken under the empire's strain. We have become lazy and corrupt. Can you not see now is a time to improve your lot, and our lot as well?"

"I don't understand," I say, my emerald eyes now tinged with red, my heartbeat slowing.

"Strike out, son. Strike out." Your fist pats into my shoulder. "Go to the south for a while, away from this place. You should have enough money to set up somewhere, an inn maybe. Find work, find contacts. The Saraphan consider you dead, but it is only now you can truly prove yourself to be alive."

Your words fill me with even more confusion as your spry little body pushes me out to the study. "You're still young, many years ahead of you. You have a sordid past like me, but now you have an opportunity I do not. You have freed yourself from the shackles, and your true purpose is out there somewhere."

"True purpose?" I say. "But what is my true purpose?"

After I say that, you shove a book into my hands. It is red, with our family crest. Your diary. I look to you, almost in shock in taking a prized possession. You nod to me. "This should give you a small start, son. The Saraphan once lived in harmony with the dragons. Perhaps some research and study can uncover ways into bringing them back. I have written what I have learned. Add on to it."

"Father," I say finally, shaking. "I…I don't know what to say…"

"Then don't say it," you reply. He gestures as Kerrey comes in. A pack is ready for me, supplies I will use on my trip south. "You know all that I have taught you. Remember it. Cherish it." You finally give a sigh, hand tugging on my sleeve. "Remember, most of all, who you are and who you will become. And know that there are higher powers who will watch over you, son."

I finally muster the courage to nod, shouldering the pack. "I won't forget," I say. "How could I forget?"

As I walk out of the house, on to greater glory, I see you outlined in the doorway, sending off his son to a brighter future. You have done well for me, father, and it is your turn to shed the happy tears.

x


End file.
